John Miller asked me to write on why I love the Diamondbacks. Twenty-nine others pitch in on the rest of the league, if you’re interested, including my friends Darryl Hart and Jeff Cain, to pick two entries that are especially worth reading.

No matter how much the owners, players, idiot commissioner, and drug-pushing trainers attempt to ruin the game, I still look forward to opening day with boyish enthusiasm. I was able to catch three spring-training games this year (the same rule holds in the Cactus League as in the majors: the older the park, the better), I’ll be at the D-backs’ opener on Monday, and I’ll have a baseball-related post for FPR that same day.  ‘Tis a wonderful time of year.

If I were Kauffman, I’d add a stanza from a baseball poem here. Bill?

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8 COMMENTS

  1. I don’t know who Matt Pozel is, but he’s no Royals fan, I can vouch for that. Business and Science!? Pshaw. Give me tobacco and pine tar and another good reason to hate New York!

  2. I love the Brooklyn Cyclones. It helps that I can afford to take my son to a game there and throw in a hot dog.

    This year we hope to take the NY Penn League Championship back from the reigning champs Batavia Muckdogs. Front Porch Champs!

    We’re coming for you Bill!

  3. Sorry, Marty. The trophy stays here.
    As for poesy, JB, I like Gene Fehler’s “My Dad Taught Me,” which we read as part of Batavia’s infamous Baseball Poetry Night. It goes:

    My Dad Taught Me

    Before my dad left
    he taught me how
    to hold my bat
    away from my body
    when I swing
    and how to let the ball
    spin off my fingertips
    when I throw
    and how to oil my glove
    and wrap string around it
    with a ball inside
    so when I sleep
    the pocket will remember
    the ball just as clearly
    as I remember
    my dad’s face.

    (From Dancing on the Basepaths, McFarland, 2001)

    Oh, and lest I forget: To hell with the majors; Long live the minors and the sandlots!

  4. Bill,

    My son has been sleeping with his ball in glove under his pillow, this last week. Yesterday, we had our little league parade.

    Each dad must do work on the fieled as part of the registration. So, I cleaned puddles out of the infield yesterday.

    Today was opening day. My son went three for four and ran to first instead of third. So much progress in one year.

    A very Front Porchy weekend!

  5. Marty,

    Congratulations! I’m twenty-five and I still run to third half the time.

    As much as I sympathize with Bills “To hell with the majors” attitude, Go Cubs! This will, I’m sure, finally be our cheer. (But don’t expect me to hold my breath.)

  6. I grew up listening to Paul Kerry and Ernie Harwell call the Tigers on WJR AM 76. But I haven’t seen the Tigers since they left Tiger (nee Briggs) stadium and I don’t intend to drop a dime in Comerica Park–ever.

    Here in the Quad Cities we’ve got the River Bandits to keep us, by turns, elated and miserable. My elder son and I walk the Centennial bridge over the Mississippi river to the ball park in Davenport, IA, where I can count on him to jump up unexpectedly and spill my beer. We’re often treated to spectacular fireworks over the river. They’re awesome–if you can tune out Lee Greenwood on the loud speakers.

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